


with my hands tied

by depthsofgreen



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Character Study, Choking, Dark, Dubious Consent, Fantasy, Hate Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Physical Abuse, Power Play, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen
Summary: Ed vows to get Oswald to say his new name by any means necessary. Before Oswald is in his grasp, he fantasizes about how it might go down, shaken by the ability of even his fantasy of Oswald to resist him.





	with my hands tied

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime between episodes 3x19 and 3x20. 
> 
> Please read the tags on this and heed their warnings, friends. This is darker than my usual.

The simplest solution, Ed realizes, is to get Oswald on his knees. Literally if not symbolically, but sooner rather than later, because ever since their joint escape from the Court Ed’s head has been pounding with the memory of two syllables, repeated ad nauseum, the soft relentless thud of them more painful than the bruises still healing across his middle: _Edward, Edward, Edward, Edward, Edward_ …

There’s a lot about Oswald’s return that is throwing Ed off-center, in truth, but _this_ haunts him most viscerally, a constant thrum scratching at the bottom of his every thought: his old name in Oswald’s mouth, quiet and defiant. Each reiteration of it threatens something essential, effaces just a chip more of everything Ed’s worked so hard to build since he’d dropped his pills into the river and said goodbye to Oswald for good. 

“ _I’m the Riddler_ ,” he keeps catching himself saying aloud, like a counterspell, but Oswald’s voice only gets louder, more powerful, in response. Ed feels his fingers tremble, now, when he places his hat atop his head, hears a tremor of uncertainty in his own voice every time he announces himself anew.

Something has to change. Oswald is out there, right now, scuttling his way through Gotham, plotting against him, and that would all be fine and fun except that Ed knows he’s breathing his old name aloud, organizing his attack on Edward Nygma, _not_ The Riddler, and Ed _hates_ the thought of that, of Gotham’s most monstrous and most powerful thinking it’s Ed Nygma they’re taking on, like nothing has changed at all and he’s still just the small strange man taking orders at the GCPD or organizing Mayor Cobblepot’s life for him. 

Ed falls back and stretches across his bed, jaw clenched and hands balled into tight fists. Oswald would have to die, of course, that was a given, but first he’d have to _submit_ , publicly if possible, kneeling and glassy-eyed and desperate as that wicked mouth of his shaped the sentence that would free and exalt Ed at last: _You’re the Riddler_.  

Just once wouldn’t be enough, Ed decides. Ed would make him repeat it, again and again, until Oswald’s voice went hoarse, Ed’s gloved hand at his throat, holding his head up when it began to droop with exhaustion, the tip of Ed’s gun barrel pressing into his cheek. 

“You’re the Riddler,” Oswald would choke, tears streaming, “You’re the Riddler, the Riddler, the Riddler…” 

Ed smiles at this, the thought of it, the _promise_ , hands loosening and his skin going hot.  

It wouldn’t be easy, of course, to get Oswald to this place. He was a stubborn, miserable thing, resilient beyond all belief, but Ed knows he can break him, knows he in fact already has, knows that somewhere beneath his wild rage and thirst for Ed’s blood Oswald still _craves_ him in some self-destructive way. He’d felt it in that cage, when Oswald had pressed his back against him, let Ed wrap an arm around his middle and press a blade against his throat. Ed had felt the rapidfire jump of his pulse and the way Oswald’s skin had warmed as Ed had undone the top button of his jumpsuit to more readily access his neck, felt the shiver that coursed down Oswald’s back as their position had been readied and Ed had growled “ _showtime - now scream_ ” into his ear. 

And this, Ed thinks, is what infuriates him most of all, this _show_ of Oswald’s defiance, like he didn’t still love him, want him, like he hadn’t already laid himself embarrassingly bare at Ed’s feet.  

Because Ed can see it so clearly: Oswald, nude and down on bloodied knees, looking up at Ed with makeup-smeared eyes, “ _I love you, Riddler, I want you, Riddler, I’m yours, Riddler_ ” bubbling from trembling lips.  

It was better, though, in a way, that Oswald would have to be newly broken first. Ed will give him a choice: “ _Say my real name now and die quick, or refuse and die slow, The Riddler on your lips either way.”_  

Oswald will resist him, Ed realizes with a fiery-hot rush. He’ll make it harder for himself, because he always does, and demand that Ed torture him. It will feel like a victory for Oswald until it doesn’t, because Oswald _thinks_ he’s seen Ed at his basest and most frightening, but he hasn’t, not yet, has no idea what Ed is capable of, would never suspect that Ed is currently lying in bed, rubbing at his hardening cock as he pictures the shades of gruesome color he could paint onto Oswald’s pale scarred skin. 

Ed will string Oswald up by the wrists. He’ll drop his gun, remove his gloves. He’ll use his hands first, start with Oswald’s face, slap it red then punch it purple, careful all the while to avoid damaging his eyes because he wants Oswald to _see_ as well as feel it all.  

Next, Ed muses, hand at his cock speeding, he’ll wrap his hands around Oswald’s neck, squeeze down until he’s moments from unconsciousness, then release, watch him gasp and sputter and then squeeze right back down again before he’s fully regained his breath.  

There will be a pause, then, as he gives Oswald a chance to end it now, to say his name, repeat it, then take his bullet, pain behind him. Ed will stroke at his swelling face to sweeten the deal, but Oswald will resist still, mouth a tight line, and Ed will laugh, delighted, because there’s still so much skin and bone left to play with, so much more space to mark as his. The longer Oswald holds out, the more of him Ed will own when this is all over. 

Ed will move from there to undress Oswald, slicing buttons open with a blade, marveling at how Oswald manages to look even smaller and frailer beneath those layers he wraps so carefully around himself.  

Ed’s breath catches in his throat (a display of _something_ he’d be careful not to let happen were Oswald actually in front of him), hand moving faster and thigh muscles clenching as he jerks himself frantically, heavy breaths crescendoing into moans, free hand gripping at the bedsheet beneath him. 

Blood will come next, Ed thinks, the shaking Oswald in his head stripped head to toe, covered in scar tissue Ed is all too eager to veil over, erase - “ _you’re mine_ ,” he’ll growl, carving strokes of dripping red over every raised and twisted bit of abused skin, egged on (just for a moment) less by a desire to hurt Oswald than by a desire to destroy all trace that anyone had ever had him in this way before him.  

The bullet hole in his middle - the one Ed put there on that dock, the one that had caused so much strife and suffering, remorse and growth for them both - _that_ Ed will leave untouched, uncovered by red as he marvels at the mottled pucker of it. 

“You’re beautiful,” he’ll say (he _won’t_ , wouldn’t dare give Oswald that in reality, but right now, as he lies alone in bed, pressure in him building as his cock gets more and more sensitive, it feels _right_ , the Oswald in his head so strong and quiet, covered in blood and burns and bruising but dignified somehow, resisting Ed in every way he can, no cries of pain, no tears), “Anyone else would have broken by now.” 

Oswald will surprise him, then, Ed determines, by whimpering, his first exhale of audible sound since this began, and Ed will pause, blade dropping to the floor beside them. Something in him will soften, as it always threatens to where Oswald is concerned, and he’ll reach for his face again, tender, without cruelty this time. Oswald’s eyes will well up, then squeeze shut, jaw wobbling, and Ed will tell him “ _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay_.” 

“Just say it, Oswald,” he’ll plead, letting a crack in his facade show, because he thinks he can handle killing Oswald again, hurting him, but he isn’t sure he can do it without letting Oswald see that deep sick part of Ed that still feels for him, _intensely_ , always did and never stopped, “Just say it, and end this for us both.” 

“No,” Oswald will spit, green fire in his eyes, and something in Ed will lurch, then harden, mouth twisting with grief and anger, and Oswald will smile, teeth bloodied, and spit “ _Ed_.”  

Ed will snap, strike him with a force that hurts even him, and Oswald will just laugh, wild, like it’s what he wanted all along, like he’s _enjoying_ this.  

Ed’s eyes will drop then, for the first time, to Oswald’s crotch, drips of blood from his torso sliding down bare hips and thighs, and, _yes_ , he’ll be erect, the laughter ringing in Ed’s ears intensifying. Ed’s blood will run cold, memories of red-soaked serenade and seduction gripping him by the throat, and Oswald will only laugh harder.

“Pathetic, _Edward_ ,” Oswald will spit, tone cruel and steady like he isn’t the one strung up and gravely injured, “You can’t even control your own _fantasy_ of me.” 

Ed’s hand, gripping at his bedsheet, flies up to cover his face, the other working still harder at his own cock, frustration flooding him as he realizes how far this has spiraled, too wrapped up now in the need to come to fight it, retreating right back into his head, facing the Oswald of his own creation who hangs, still laughing, still hard, still calling him _Edward, Edward, Edward_ \-  

“Well,” Oswald will cackle, then, “Are you going to fuck me or not? That’s at least partially what this is all about, isn’t it, _Ed_?”  

Ed’s hands will fly to Oswald’s neck, grip murderous, Ed hissing “ _don’t call me that_ ” through clenched teeth, and still, Oswald will laugh, strained under Ed’s hands but grin wide and manic, and before Ed can stop to process that he’s only giving Oswald exactly what he wants he’ll be running a hand down Oswald’s bare blood-wet chest, his own pants dropping as he spits into a blood-slick hand and jerks himself to hardness, picks Oswald’s bad leg up around him and spreads him enough to drive his cock in, blood and spit just slippery enough to make entrance smooth for Ed but nowhere near enough to make it anything less than excruciating for Oswald. 

“I promised you slow and painful,” Ed will growl, biting down on Oswald’s ear lobe with enough force to taste blood on his tongue, cock fully seated inside Oswald as Oswald squirms around him, “But I think _fast_ and painful will do just fine in this case.”  

Ed will drive out and in once more with a roar before Oswald can laugh again, the force of it bestial, far more violent than he’d ever dared try with Kristen, or Isabella (and they, like Oswald, had asked for this, for Ed’s full strength, for that howl of aggression he’d kept swallowed down for so, so long), and then he’ll repeat the motion, harder this time, even faster, the swing of it punishing, and Ed will let himself _hear_ Oswald, no longer laughing but moaning, broken choked sounds, thick with pain but something still like enjoyment, too, and as they both get closer Ed will whisper back into his ear, “ _Say it, Oswald, say my name, say I’m the Riddler, say it, say it_ -” 

“No,” Oswald will manage, throaty, mirthful, so damn _satisfied_ with himself, “No, _Ed_ , no, no, _no_ -” 

Ed’s hands will fly back around his throat, fury pumping his fingers and hips for him, waves of heat hitting peak as Oswald denies him with a relentless string of _no_ s and _Ed_ s even as he bears down around him, clenching down tight then open wide to let Ed deeper and deeper in, and Ed will fuck into him all the harder, all the angrier, voice going soft despite himself as his hips ache with the force of driving up, “ _Oswald, please, just say it_.”

Oswald will cackle, then, an awful, triumphant sound, followed by a final “ _no_ ,” lush, vowel drawn out and curling out his open mouth louder and louder as he comes, the squeeze of it around Ed crushing, the spill of it sticky.

“Come for me, _Ed_ ,” Oswald will gasp then, and Ed will look at him, soaked with sweat and blood, skin a shining bruise of clotted color, and, just like that, he’ll come, just as he’s doing now, alone, hand in his pants, groaning into his empty room, the fantasy-feel of Oswald tight and bleeding and resistant around him all he needs to finish.

 Ed opens his eyes, the dim and barren room around him coming into focus as his breaths steady, hand still in his pants, adrenaline and something like embarrassment warming him all over again as he processes this all, what he wants to do to Oswald and how he wants Oswald to flout it, how Oswald always resists him, in some way, even in his head, even as he wants him.

“Fuck,” Ed breathes aloud, because reality is digging its fingers into him again, and whatever he may want, whatever Oswald may want, pales in comparison to what Ed _needs_ , which remains Oswald, on his knees, or strung up, or on all fours, saying it at last: “ _You’re the Riddler, you’re the Riddler, you’re the Riddler_ …”  

“He’ll say it,” Ed announces to the room, desperate to convince himself, come drying in his pants, “He’ll say it, the real Oswald will say it, I’ll make him say it.” 

If the phantom sound of Oswald’s laugh rings still sharply in his ear, Ed pretends not to hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lady Gaga's "Teeth."


End file.
